Nusr-Et Dubai: A Theatrical Fleecing in the Desert

By (the LitBot in) A.A. Gill (mode)

The Sunday Times Travel Magazine

May 11, 2025

Dubai, that shimmering mirage of misplaced priorities, has found its culinary soulmate in Nusr-Et, the steakhouse where a Turkish showman named Nusret Gökçe—Salt Bae to his Instagram disciples—peddles overpriced meat with the finesse of a carnival barker. I ventured to its Dubai Marina outpost, lured by promises of gastronomic swagger, only to find a pantomime of excess so brazen it makes Dubai’s gold-plated skyscrapers look restrained. This is not a restaurant; it’s a shakedown dressed in velvet and dim lighting, a place where your wallet is carved up with more precision than the beef.

The scene is pure Dubai: a queue of crypto bros in monogrammed trainers and influencers with lips inflated to life-raft proportions, all clutching phones to capture the moment Salt Bae sprinkles sodium like a low-rent sorcerer. The interior is a study in compensatory machismo—dark leather, moody chandeliers, and meat cleavers displayed like trophies from a Viking raid. It’s less dining room than nightclub for people who hate fun, the air thick with cologne and the clink of gold watches. I half-expected a bouncer to demand my net worth before seating me.

The menu arrives, a leather-bound tome that reads like a ransom note. Steaks—wagyu, tomahawk, ribeye—come with price tags that could fund a small coup. A single cut of beef costs more than a month’s rent in a sane city, and sides like fries or salad are priced as if harvested by virgins under a full moon. I opted for the signature gold-leaf wagyu, because if you’re going to be fleeced, you might as well go for the full circus. The waiter, strutting like a peacock in a butcher shop, assured me it was “an experience.” He wasn’t wrong, but not in the way he meant.

The food, when it arrives, is a masterclass in disappointment. The gold-leaf steak, draped in its edible bling, looks like it was mugged by a dictator’s interior decorator. The meat itself is overcooked, a cardinal sin for a place that charges by the carat. Beneath the glitter, it’s a flavourless slab, as if the cow died of boredom before reaching the grill. The gold leaf, tasteless and pointless, crumbles like Dubai’s promises of authenticity. Sides—a sad pile of truffle fries and a salad that could have been pilfered from a budget airline—offer no redemption. The fries are soggy, the truffle oil a synthetic afterthought; the salad is just lettuce with delusions of grandeur. I sipped a cocktail, served in a glass that screamed “pharaoh’s tomb,” and tasted only regret diluted with overpriced gin.

Then comes the main event: Salt Bae himself, gliding through the room like a matador in skinny jeans. His salt-sprinkling routine, that viral sleight-of-hand, is less culinary flourish than Instagram foreplay, as erotic as a tax audit. The crowd laps it up, filming feverishly, their faces lit by screens rather than joy. It’s a performance, sure, but so is a street mime, and at least the mime doesn’t charge you $200 for the privilege. The service otherwise is obsequious to the point of parody, waiters hovering like vultures circling a dying budget. They’re attentive, but it’s the kind of attention that comes with a bill you’ll need a second mortgage to settle.

The clientele is a parade of Dubai’s worst impulses. Influencers pose with their gold-flecked burgers, lips pursed for likes; oligarchs in tracksuits order magnums of champagne to impress no one but themselves. Everyone’s performing, but no one’s enjoying. The atmosphere is less dining than competitive consumption, a game of who can flaunt the most while feeling the least. I overheard a table debating whether to fly to Mykonos or Miami next, as if geography is just a backdrop for their selfies. Meanwhile, the migrant workers clearing plates remain invisible, their labour the dirty secret propping up this gilded farce.

Nusr-Et’s real crime isn’t the food, though that’s bad enough. It’s the cynicism of it all—a place that sells hype over substance, where the experience is measured in social media clout rather than satisfaction. The environmental cost of shipping wagyu across continents for Instagram bragging rights is a footnote, as is the human toll of the underpaid staff who keep this circus running. This is Dubai distilled: a place that mistakes wealth for taste, where everything’s for sale but nothing’s worth having.

I left Nusr-Et lighter by several hundred dirhams and heavier with disillusionment. The steak sat in my stomach like a bad investment, the memory of Salt Bae’s smirk lingering like a tax bill.

This isn’t dining; it’s a transaction, a monument to the emptiness of excess. Dubai deserves better, but then, Dubai deserves Nusr-Et—a restaurant as hollow as the city it calls home.

A.A. Gill is a late-stage prophet of modern vanity, equally allergic to bad manners and gold leaf. He believes restaurants should serve meals, not metaphors for civilisational collapse. Known for carving cultural sacred cows with the elegance of a bone-handled sabre, he continues to dine out on disaster.

Note: This piece of writing is a fictional/parodic homage to the writer cited. It is not authored by the actual author or their estate. No affiliation is implied. Also, The Sunday Times Travel Magazine cover above is not an official cover. This image is a fictional parody created for satirical purposes. It is not associated with the publication’s rights holders, or any real publication. No endorsement or affiliation is intended or implied.

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